unheeding. Death made little change in his countenance, and when hewas dressed in his accustomed clothing, and laid in his coffin, helooked like a weary man taking rest in sleep.

It was a pleasant day in mid April that we bore him to his grave, andlaid him down beneath the green branches of the arbor vitae tree. Howmany mournful thoughts pressed upon the heart, almost crushing out thevery life, as the mournful train followed him to that sacred spot. Whothat has looked into an open grave, and seen the coffin of the dearlyloved lowered into it, but has felt an indiscribable agony filling theheart, and blotting out all the prospect of future earthly happiness?And who that listens to the sound of the heavy, damp earth as it fallsupon the coffin, but will say, "oh, has earth another sound likethis?" And there we left the husband and the father reposing beneaththe tree his own hand had trained, and in the yard where he had spentso many hours laboring to beautify the spot where he was so soon tolie down in his last long sleep. By his side are the graves of the twodear grand-children, who were wont to share in his caresses, and hissmiles. Silent now is their greeting, as the weary grandfather laysdown with them in the place of graves: But eternity! oh eternity!how is the meeting there? Have they met? There are father, mother,brothers, sister, and a long train of relatives from whom he hasbeen long separated. Have they recognized each other? O, bewilderingthoughts, be still, and cease your restless longings; "secret thingsbelong to God," and "what we know not now we shall know hereafter."But now, while the soft winds of summer are gently sighing through thebranches of the arbor vitae tree that stands at the head of the grassymound that rises over the form of my buried husband, I see by hisside, the spot where, in all human probability, this frame will soonbe deposited, to sleep with him in death's silent halls, even as Ihave journeyed with him through life. 'Till then, let me turn tomy mission, and endeavor by a faithful discharge of every duty,to prepare for that time, and strive by a holy life and godlyconversation, to so influence my children, that they may all seek acity not made with hands eternal, and in the heavens. And thus shallbe answered my daily prayer, that we may be a united family in heaven.

So we returned to the house beneath the mild radiance of a Sabbathsun, to experience that awful void that death makes in the domesticcircle to which so many bereaved hearts can respond.

Lines, Written upon the Young Who Have Recently Died in Our Village.

Why are the young and beautiful Call'd so early to the tomb? Death surely loves a shining mark,-- And sweetly feeds on youthful bloom!

Go, wander in the place of graves, When softly steals the autumn's sigh, And on the sculptured marble read, How many in life's morning die.

Beauty may bloom upon the cheek, And brightly sparkle in the eye; But soon the fatal hectic streak Proclaims that stealthy Death is nigh.

Maria, by her mother's side, So young, in Death's dark chambers laid, And Lottie, soon to be a bride, Have seen earth's fairest vision fade.

A lovely vision floating fair, In Memory's chambers now is seen, With sparkling eyes and glossy hair, A radiant brow, and gentle mien.

She stole by fond and winning ways, Into many a loving heart; And with a sweet and childish grace, Well performed her little part.

But death soon laid her beauty low, Like spring flowers fading on the stem, And, blighting all her youthful bloom, Laid Clara, mould'ring now with them.

Dear Willie too, that child of prayer, So suddenly has pass'd away, And enter'd those bless'd mansions where All is bright, eternal day.

Here, many a loving name is found, Of those who in life's pathway trod; Who slumber now, beneath the mound, Their spirits summon'd to their God.

Some by long disease confin'd, Have slowly wasted day by day; Health, strength and beauty--all declin'd, And Youth's bright visions pass'd away.

But wander on; the sculptured stone In thunder tones is speaking here; The name--the age--it loudly tells, To eye and heart, if not the ear.

They sleep when winter's winds are loud, And snow and sleet come drifting by; And when light sails the rosy cloud, And Spring's sweet gales around them sigh.

Conscience, and what is conscience? Is it not that silent but powerfulmonitor within that weighs our every motive? is it not the small stillvoice that whispers its approval when we have acted right, but burstslike the crashing thunder peal or the terrific earthquake, when wehave acted wrong? She stands with extended finger a silent thoughfaithful friend, and points us onward in the plain path of duty. Wehave only to follow her dictates, and all will be well. But many gaudyflowers are blooming here and there beside the path, to tempt thethoughtless one to step aside and pluck; but though they are beautifulto the eye, and their fragrance borne to us by the breeze, seems towoo us temptingly, yet, concealed within their leaves is a deadlyscorpion or poisonous asp, whose sting is instant death, or some,perhaps, contain a more slow and sluggish poison, that creeps into themind, and instilling its venom by slow degrees, corrupts the whole.Conscience has well been called the tell tale of our breasts.

How does it harrow up the mind at the still hours of midnight, whenall nature sleeps around, and depict crimes that no eye has witnessedbut God and their perpetrators; how does the murderer toss from sideto side beneath her lash, and see his victim for the thousandth timein the agonies of death; over and over again, she acts the bloodyscene, and, while he turns restless and feverish upon his pillow,still holds the picture bleeding fresh to fancy's wearied gaze, and asin Macbeth, presents the dagger, while "on its blade and bludgeon aredrops of blood that were not so before." Crimes of dye not so deep,are conjured up to harrow up the breast and rack the brain, and renderthe victim of a disapproving conscience a miserable wretch indeed.

Truly she is placed within us as a friend, warning us of danger andpressaging good. If we would listen to her dictates, we must be happy,for she never argues wrong. And superlatively happy are they who canlay calmly down on the bed of death cheered by her approving smiles,for a "death bed is a detector of the heart;" here tired dissimulationdrops the mark that through life's grimace has kept up the scene.

Lines, Written in an Album.

The autumn winds are sighing loud, And wither'd leaves come flitting by, And slowly sails the gath'ring cloud, Across the bleak November sky.

The flow'rs have perish'd on the stem, Their brilliant beauty all decayed, And many golden hope like them, In disappointment's tomb is laid.

But yet, far sinking to his rest, The golden king of day behold, The crimson curtains of the west Are richly fring'd with molten gold.

Thus brightly may your life decline, Though youth may fade upon your brow, May Truth and Virtue radiant shine, E'en like yon sinking sun beam now.

Letter, from the Pen of My Husband, Now Deceased.

_Pawtucket, June_ 20, 1852.

Mrs. M. M. Bucklin:

My daughter in affliction, I would that, like Paul on Mars Hill, Icould enter at once, with eloquence and persuasion, on a subject thatmight have the influence of restoring or bringing back your naturalbuoyancy and elasticity of spirit. I need not tell you that I feelearnestly, sensibly and deeply for you; and any mortal effort orsacrifice within my power should not be wanting to effect an object sodesirable by your friends. But Malvina, an arm of flesh is not tobe relied upon; no human ken can reach the mysterious windings andwonderful intricacies of a mother's love for her offspring. Thatis, as yet, the unrevealed handiwork of Omnipotence, who in wisdomconceived the beautiful mechanism, and brought to perfection therefinements of our nature; and to his almighty fiat are we indebted,both for the boon of death and the glorious hope of the resurrection.How peculiarly adapted to our consolation is the doctrine of theresurrection. The angel of mercy has withdrawn from your boson abeloved child. O, how sweet the consolation of hope through the verylife-giving words of Him who cannot lie, as so beautifully and sotenderly expressed to Martha, "Thy brother shall rise again." And, mydaughter, be assured that your little Emma shall rise again, for saidthe same Almighty Comforter, "of such is the Kingdom of Heaven."Therefore it would be wise in us not to sorrow for her who is asleep.I know you believe that Jesus died and rose again. And so, also, ofthem who sleep in Jesus, will God bring with him.

The question by the afflicted man of Uz might once, with some degreeof propriety have been asked, "If a man die shall he live again?"But we believe in the resurrection of the dead, because He whohas promised is able to perform, and no science however new, norspeculation however magnificent, should be allowed to rob us of thisbeautiful and life-giving hope. I know that it is hard for us toconcieve the mighty power of transformation or to demonstrate thegreat principle of a spiritual ascension from our decayed bodies, ofthose seraphic hosts, who are to stand as ministering angels aroundthe majesty of Heaven, through all the never ending cycles ofeternity, no matter what objections skepticism may urge of theimpossibility of conceiving how the dead can be raised up to a newnessof life. Our faith receives it as a revealed fact, and our heartsrejoice in the glorious hope, because we know that our Redeemerliveth, and that he will again stand upon this earth. And though theseour frail bodies may be destroyed by death, yet shall we see God.Marvellous as may be the transition, at death and the resurrection,we shall all preserve our own identity, and see and know the belovedcompanions of our earthly pilgrimage.

Blessed be God for this sweet hope in the resurrection of thedead, that so clothes the far off and unseen world with ecstaticanticipations of the renewed presence of our friends, to whom, evenin their glorified appearance, we shall be no strangers. We must notpersuade ourselves that the preservation of little Emma's sacred dustis a mere tribute of affection to her memory; but rather a prophecy ofthat precious hope, that she shall awake from this sleep and meetus again, and that we shall know her again, and that we shall betogether, and unitedly hear that voice, sublime and almighty, yettender and soothing, saying, "I am the resurrection and the life; hethat believeth in me though he were dead, yet shall he live."

The resurrection of the dead is the crowning act of the Redeemer'spower, and the consummation of his work. How beautiful to contemplatethe spiritual import and eternal grandeur of his mission:

"We may be blest, but Emma's glorious-- O'er all the stings of death victorious."

Dear M.M.:

"You feel like Eve, when Eden's gate Had closed on her forevermore;-- You feel that life is desolate, And Paradise is o'er. No tears be yours, for tears are vain; Your heart and not your robe is rent: If God who gave did take again, 'Tis folly to lament. Then drop the curtain, fold by fold, O'er her consecrated bower; And veil from curious eyes, and cold, Your dead, yet living flower."

Affectionately, your

Father.

Hope.

A little skiff on time's dark stream, With silken sail and golden oar, Is floating like a fairy dream, And pointing to some distant shore, Where brighter bloom more fragrant flow'rs, Perfuming amaranthine bow'rs.

The oar that dips the sullen wave, Throws up some diamond rich and rare, Striving the sinking soul to save, From the dark shadows of despair; And though the night be e'er so dark, Light hovers o'er this little bark.

'Tis Hope unfurls that silken sail, And dips her oar in life's deep tide; And dancing on before the gale, Throws sparkling diamonds far and wide, And paints in brilliant rainbow dyes, Onward to some radiant prize.

Visit to Mount Auburn.

It was a beautiful day in autumn, when the mellow sun shed hissubduing rays Over the face of decaying nature, that we entered theelegant carriage of an esteemed friend, and pursued our way towardsMount Auburn, that quiet resting place of the dead.

As we pursued our way from East Boston, the water in the harbor,whitened with many a sail, sparkled in the morning sun, and glitteredlike ten thousand diamonds.

It was Saturday, busy, bustling Saturday, when all the world seemedhurrying on as if to make amends for any deficiency in the other daysof the week.

The white sea-gulls were floating through the air, often stooping asif to dip their wings in the ocean waves, that murmured gently uponthe winding shore.

There was scarce a cloud to be seen in the sky, and the calmness ofnature whispered peace to the weary spirit.

As we crossed the ferry and entered the city, and witnessed the movingtide of human life that was surging through the city mart jostlingagainst each other in their eager chase; and as we looked out upon themotly group, human life was to be seen in almost all its forms.

Wealth hung out his golden trappings, and rolled by in all thesplendor of ease and luxury The children of poverty trudged on intattered garments, stung by pinching want, bearing heavy burdens upontheir heads, and weighed down by oppression.

These scenes awoke many reflections in the mind, and presented thecontrast of life.

Passing through the city with its tumults and its changes, we pursuedour way through Cambridge to the Cemetery.

The scenery was beautiful, and as we passed the elm tree whereWashington stood to give command to his army, how many associationsrushed upon the mind, filling it with remembrances of our country'searly struggles.

We entered the quiet shades "where rest the dead," sleeping beneaththe sober shadows of the forest trees that were scattering now andthen a withered leaf upon the grassy mounds that lay at their feet.Here still, even here too, is the same contrast so visible in themoving, active life of the city.

Wealth here has the splendid monument, embellished with all thesculptor's art, while the poor sleep as sweetly beneath the simplesod.

Our first visit was to the Chapel. You are struck upon your entrancewith the hollow sounds that reverberate at every footfall, remindingone of the emptiness of all earthly things.

There was a coffin within the paling, covered with a black pall,speaking to us of death and decay; but as we raised our eyes to thestained glass windows, through which the autumnal sun was pouring hismellow rays, and casting such a subdued and peculiar light upon allthings in the Chapel, and saw the heavenly expression of the angels asthey took their upward flight, the soul seemed big with immortality,and the Christian's hope teeming with a better life, was cheeringto it, lifting it up till the things of earth looked dim, distant,shadowy.

The beautiful statue, too, touched so nicely by the hand of art, as tolook like breathing marble, points the beholder upward to the skies.This Chapel, standing as it does at the entrance of the Cemetery,is well calculated to solemnize, the mind, and prepare it for thecontemplations of the surrounding scene.

As we left its quiet retreat and pursued our onward way, sad thoughtscame stealing over the mind, as we reflected how many aching heartsand tearful eyes had passed over that road to deposit the dearlyloved, and lost in their last resting places.

How proper it seems that a navigator should stand at the entrance topilot the way, and we can but think Spurzheim is taking his scientificobservations, as his bust stands as though looking upon the passers byas they pursue their way to the city of the dead.

We passed on our way through the winding avenues, presenting theirstriking and varied emblems, speaking so forcibly to the mind. Thewhite dove with open beak and half spread wing; the harp withthe broken string, and the broken column, are all beautiful andsignificant representations, preaching loudly for the silent dust thatslumbers beneath them.

As we ascended to the tower, we passed the yard enclosed with thebeautiful bronze fence. Looking from the tower you witnessed life withits struggles, its comforts and luxuries; but the graves beneath ussay, "we must leave all, and come and make our beds with them."

How striking is the anxious expression of the faithful dog, keepingpatient watch over the grave of his young master, through summer'ssultry heat, and winter's pinching cold, never betraying his trust.How beautiful, and yet how simple is the touching inscriptions,"My Father," "My Mother." Neither name or age are mentioned to thestranger, yet what a volume is spoken directly to the heart. The whitelambs reposing upon the grassy mounds represent the innocence thatslumbers beneath.

Many little tokens are scattered round here and there, as mementoes offond affection. As we gazed upon the fresh boquets, wet with the dewof night, we felt that love lingered around those places, and thetears of affection often fell there.

The flowers, beautiful though they are, either at the tomb or thebridal, give us no name or trace of former days, but lay scatteredround in rich profusion, telling us of love and affection that cannotperish, because they are amaranthine flowers that have their root inthe mind, and bear the impress of immortality; and as we gaze upon thebeautiful, either in nature or art, it becomes daguerreotyped upon thesoul, and thus lives forever, coming up at the touch of memory's wand,with all the vividness of a first impression.

The forest trees standing in solemn grandeur, the winding avenues,the sloping hills, the deep dells, with the placid waters sleeping intheir bosoms, with the bright red flowers contrasting with the whitepolished marble monuments, all conspire to render the place oneof extreme beauty and interest. But when we compare this with thedescriptions we have read of Westminster Abbey, covered with themouldering dust of ages, as generation after generation has been addedto it, we can picture to the imagination the change passing yearswill make here. The silent hand of time will steal by degrees,the freshness and beauty from the polished marble, effacing theirbeauties, one by one, 'till all are obliterated, and green mouldand moss occupy their places, and the monument shall cease to be amemorial.

Such is time with its changes, and yet the thoughtless race of manpass on, unheeding the destiny that awaits them, slow to learn thelessons these solemn places are calculated to teach.

The birds as they sang in the branches, seemed breathing a dirge-likemelody over the departed, and even their thrilling notes soundedsolemn in this sacred place, so strong is the power of associationover the human mind.

After spending some hours in this shady place, and drinking in itsbeauties and its solemnities, 'till the mind became softened andsubdued by surrounding influences, we left it, bearing in the memoryall the rich variety of landscape, we had been gazing on.

We visited Fresh Pond, where so many go for amusement. Thus it isever, the living sport upon the very graves of the departed. Thescenery here, though beautiful and picturesque, has not the touchinginfluences of the Cemetery, and so we lingered not there, but returnedagain to the busy city to contrast its bustle, and its stir, with thedeep quiet and silent shades of Mount Auburn.

Lines, From Mary to Her Father in California, with Her Daguerreotype.

Papa, I have hither come, To cheer you in your lonely home; No wealth of mind to you I bring, But I would touch the secret spring That can your best affections move, The fountain of a father's love. My perfect likeness here you see, In infantile sobriety; But then I jump, and laugh, and play, And call on mamma all the day; And though you distant are so far, I'm calling ever on papa. If I a hoe or spade could hold, I'd dig for California gold: Or wash your clothes--prepare your bread, Or sweep your room, or make your bed. But many a year must pass away Ere I one kindness can repay; For I can only have control O'er the deep currents of the soul; I feel I have a kindly part Within many a human heart. Should life be spared as years pass by, To win approval I must try. Perchance in passing o'er life's stage, That I may soothe your weary age; And then in part the debt repay, That now increases day by day. But papa, dig your heap of gold, That we may soon your face behold; But to be patient we will try, One kiss, papa, and now good by.

A Reminiscence.

Early in the evening of a beautiful summer's day, I stood, withthousands of my fellow creatures, on the dock of one of our northerncities, to witness the departure of a noble steamer, which sat uponthe blue waters like a sea bird at rest, freighted with the wealth andbeauty of the land. The golden sun had sunk behind the curtains of thewest, bathing the earth with a flood of crimson glory; and the noisyhum of busy life was hushed, as the quiet shades of twilight fell uponthe tired citizens of the great metropolis.

Here and there among the crowd could be distinguished a group of kindfriends, gathered around some loved companion, who would soon be

"Far out o'er the ocean blue."

Here a careless, merry set of fellows were trying, with their brightwit and lively sallies, to cheer a young companion who was about toleave the home of his boyhood, to seek a name and a fortune a fardistant land.

There stands a pale, care-worn, yet lovely woman, with a tear whichshe cannot restrain, coursing down her cheek, as with a convulsivepressure of the hand and a murmured, "God bless you," she parts withher son. He is her only son, and she is a widow.

In yonder proud city a home awaits him, where he can earn a slightpittance, to keep them from starving.

The grey-haired sire, the blooming youth, the middle aged, are allhere, parting with their friends, while yonder gay throng, with lightlaugh and bandied jest, are offering the congratulations and theparting salutations to a fair young bride, arrayed in all thegorgeousness of wealth and beauty.

The last word is spoken, the last fond pressure of the hand, andthe last farewell kiss are all given, and amid the cheers of themultitude, and the whistle of the engine, the ringing of the bell, andthe puff of the steam, the noble ship leaves the wharf, and ploughsher way on the billowy deep, and the busy throng seek their homes,their hearts beating high in anticipation of a coming day, when theyshall again welcome the absent friends, scarcely a thought of pain ordeath mars their bright hope.

* * * * *

The hours pass on. The full orbed moon rides forth, enthroned amongher retinue of stars, in a clear cerulean sky, bathing all thingsbeautiful in a mellow light. Far out upon the blue waters rides thenoble steamer, like a thing of life, leaving a long wake of white foambehind. Her numerous passengers had laid down to dream of home andhappiness. The gay youth is with his companions, the poor boy with hiswidowed mother, the bride in the home of her youth--all are livingover again the scenes that are past.

As they thus lie, lulled in security, the startling cry of "Fire!fire?--the ship is on fire!" breaks in an appalling sound on the ear.Every one springs instantly to their feet, and every possible meansare resorted to, to quench the flames, but all in vain; the flamesrush on, and in agony the passengers and crew await their doom. Theman of God, with his white hair streaming over his shoulders, iscalling upon them to make their peace with God; and anon he kneelsand commends them to his kind care. The voice of prayer, the hymn ofpraise, the groan of agony, the silent tear, the piercing shriek, arealike in vain. The destroyer speeds on; the awful announcement is madethat there is powder on board! Oh, the untold misery of that hour, asin speechless agony they watch the flames. It came at last--and withone shriek of despair, the doomed victims were hurled into eternity,and far and wide over the waters were scattered the remains of thesteamer and her crew.

Morn came. The waves sparkled merrily in the sunbeams, and not a traceof the fell destroyer remains; but far--far down in the depth of theocean, on a bed of green sea flowers, reposes the form of that fairyoung bride--the friend of my youth.

Letter of Resignation, from Mrs. Hanna to The Maternal Association

_February, 11th_.

Dear Sisters in Christ:

We have journeyed on together, through another year, until we havereached that elevated period, where it has been our wont to pause andtake a retrospective view of the past, and lay plans for the future.

Has the progress of our Association been satisfactory? I feel, my dearsisters, that while we have some things to deplore, we have much to bethankful for. No mother has been taken by death from our circle, andwe have been called to part with but one darling child; and while Godhas taken from us one immortal spirit to bloom in his paradise above,he has in his rich mercy bestowed upon us another to claim oursympathies and our prayers.

Another year is gone--solemn thought! As we glance at the record ofits events, and contemplate its changes, we can but feel a realizingsense of the shortness of time, and the necessity of improving thepresent to the best possible advantage. One after another has droppedfrom our little circle, till we are left but few in number; but enoughto claim the precious promise of the blessed Saviour, that he will bewith us if we meet in his name. And, my sisters, has he not verifiedhis promise unto us? for have we not felt our hearts burn within us,when we have knelt together before a mercy seat, and poured forth ourprayers into the ear of that pitying Saviour, beseeching him to havecompassion upon us and our children. Have not the hours we have spenttogether, conversing upon the things that pertain to the kingdom ofGod, and the moral and spiritual improvement of our children, been tous like the oasis in the desert to the weary traveller? and may we notlook back upon them as the spots where we rested beneath the shadow ofthe Almighty, and drank from the healing waters of salvation. And mysisters, though we may not see the immediate results of our labors,let us rely upon the rich promises of God, that in due time theseed shall spring up and bear fruit, some ten, twenty, thirty,sixty--perchance some an hundred fold. Then let us be encouraged to dowith all our might what our hands find to do.

As we see the vacancies the past year has made, we can but feel, withJob, "that when a few more years are come, I shall go the way whenceI shall not return." And truly we may adopt the language of Paul,"Seeing these things are so, what manner of persons ought we to be, inall holy conversation and godliness."

My dear sisters, it now devolves upon me to resign the officenecessity rather than choice compelled me to accept, and I feel thatin so doing, I shall best promote the interests of the Association.I thank you for your kind forbearance toward my short comings, whichhave been many. I regret that I have served you so inefficiently, andhope the better offices of the succeeding year may tend to the greaterpromotion of the holy objects of your Association. And while we meettogether, and pray together, and together wait for the harvest, may webe bound together in the love of Christ, and each succeeding year addnew supplies of grace.

Yours, affectionately, in Christ,

A. S. Hanna.

Improvement of Time

There is nothing more necessary for our future welfare than theimprovement of time. Our time is too valuable to be spent in idleness.If we wish to be respected, we must be industrious; and to beindustrious we must know how to value our time. Every moment mustbe spent as we should wish it had been when we come to years ofdiscretion. There are many things that we can busy ourselves in doingthat will fill up a few leisure moments, and perhaps it will do somegood. If we are poor, we can relieve our parents in trying to assistthem in the daily labors and toils of life, for hard must be the lotof that toil-worn father, and care-worn mother, who have a numerousfamily to maintain by their daily labor, all careless and indifferentof their hardships and fatigues. If we are rich, we can make thosehappy around us by the thousand nameless attentions which the hand ofindustry alone can supply. Therefore, whatever our situation in lifemay be, the good improvement of our time will not only tend to promoteour usefulness, but our happiness. Take for instance a man who hasindulged in habits of indolence from his childhood, and see what ithas brought him to. He has been in the habit of lounging aboutthe streets unemployed, or perhaps watching for opportunities formischief; step by step he descends in his moral degradation; vicesucceeds folly, till a dark catalogue of crimes brings him to adrunkard's grave. State prison, or the gallows. While, on the otherhand, take a man who has been accustomed to labor and toil forhis daily food, and see how much more he is respected, and what adifference there is in the lives of those two men. The one is belovedand respected, and the other is miserable and degraded.

The industrious man begins life, and perhaps has no better prospectsbefore him than his companion; but see how much better he ends lifethan the other. He begins to climb the ladder of science, and byperseverance, he will soon reach the top round, and he can not do thisunless he improves his time.

We have ample proof that unless we improve our time we can not behappy or respected, and when we have a feeling of indolence come overus, we must shake it off and try to arouse our energies, and we mustbear in mind that for every idle moment we must give an account at thebar of God on the judgment day, before God and man.

Lines, Written on the Death of Frank.

For their darling boy they weep,-- For their beautiful and bright, Who sweetly fell asleep, One mild, autumnal night, And the wind his requiem sang, As his spirit passed away, From this world of toil and pain, To the realms of endless day.

They bore him to the grave,-- To his long and silent home, Where the trees in summer wave. And the birds and blossoms come;-- Where the sunlight faintly creeps, And the autumn breezes moan, There the loved one softly sleeps, In his chamber dark and lone.

Now vacant is the chair, At the table and the hearth,-- They miss him everywhere, With the voice of joy and mirth. They seek for him in vain, In the chamber where he lay, Through weary months of pain, Wasting slowly, day by day.

He sweetly fell asleep, As an infant sinks to rest, When sunlight shadows creep. Along the rosy west. Gently as falls the rose, Fanned by the zephyr's breath, So his eyelids softly closed, In the quiet sleep of death.

He has gone to his rest; Oh! weep not for the dead,-- For the loved and the lost Let no bitter tears be shed. We trust that he has gone. With the glorified to dwell, And say, "God's will be done-- He doeth all things well."

The Pleasures of Memory.

Memory is a choice gift bestowed on man. It is a boundless source ofpleasure to most all persons, unless their lives have been fraughtwith crimes of so daring a nature, that it makes the the heart revoltat the very thought of them. It is pleasant at times to revert to thescenes of by-gone days, and recall one beloved companion and another,that have passed away, and to think of the many happy interviews wehave held with them.

It is necessary for the scholar to improve his memory, that he mayretain what he learns; that it may be of use to him at some futuretime; that he may receive the reward he has anxiously sought for. Itis pleasant to the aged to recall the scenes that have long sinceslumbered in oblivion, and awaken from the hallowed precincts of thedead, thoughts of friends with whom they were wont to associate intheir early days, and retrace the sports of their childhood, whenhealth and activity nerved their limbs, and happiness filled theirbosoms.

It is pleasant to look back upon past pleasures, to recall thebeautiful scenes we have once witnessed, the smile of friendship, thetear of sympathy, the glance of affection, the tone of love, or tolisten again to the thrilling sounds of soul-enrapturing music, thathas once delighted us. But so varied is our pathway of life, thata thorough retrospection must ever be fraught with sad as well aspleasing reflection. Is memory thus faithful to her trust? Then hownecessary that we should improve each moment, as it glides along intothe unbounded ocean of eternity, that it may bear a good record to thefuture hour. And, O, how necessary that we should so spend our lives,that when we come to be laid upon our death-bed, in the last agoniesof expiring nature, if reason does not forsake her throne, andmemory still proves true to her trust, it may bring up the pleasingrecollection that life has been well spent.

The Song of the Weary One.

There is no music in my heart,-- No joy within my breast; In scenes of mirth I have no part,-- In quiet scenes no rest.

Mine is a weariness of life,-- A sickness of the soul; An ever constant struggling strife, My feelings to control.

Oh, it was ever--ever thus, From childhood's earliest hour; My spirits ever were weighed down, By some mysterious power.

There seemed some dark, unearthly fate, Around my life to twine; That which brings joy to other hearts, Brings mournfulness to mine.

And yet I am too proud to weep, I never could complain; And so they deem my spirit feels No weariness or pain.

They read not in my sunken eye, And in my faded cheek. A weight of wretchedness and woe, That words could never speak.

Oh, 'tis a weary--weary lot, To live when joy is gone;-- To feel life has no sunny spot, Yet still we must live on.

To mingle with the laughing crowd, Yet feel we are alone; To know there's not one human heart Can understand our own.

Oh, Thou, who sitt'st enthroned on high, Who every heart can see, Look down in pity and in love, and take me home to thee.

Lines, Inscribed to a Brother.

A New Year's gift I send to thee, A volume filled with quaint old rhymes; And may it wake the memory Within thy heart, of olden times.

When we by the cheerful fireside hearth, Together conned the glowing page, Grave themes, and subjects full of mirth, Did each by turns our minds engage.

Oh, then, what rapture filled my heart, How throbb'd my brow--how burn'd my brain, As the poet with his magic art, Wove the deep mysteries of his strain.

But now a leaden stupor lies Upon my dull, inactive soul; In vain my spirit strives to rise, From the dark mists that o'er it roll.

Thus, like the rosy sunset hues, Fade fancy's pictures from the soul, The light that youth's fair skies imbued, Is merged in clouds that o'er us roll.

Changes

Who has not observed the mutability and ever changing aspect ofearthly things? Here, in this pleasant village, where rises thetowering spire, the lofty mansion and the humble cottage, with allthe varieties appertaining to our village, its numerous factoriesand pleesant school houses, its well erected bridge over its foamingwaters, once the Indian roamed, in untamed freedom, through forestsunbroken by the woodman's axe. Here resounded the fierce war-whoop,and here the wild death song; here was built the council-fire, andhere was smoked the pipe of peace; in fine, here on this very spotexisted all the elements of savage life. The light canoe was paddledover the roaring stream, that thundered on in its majesty, even asnow.

But the white man came and scattered the race, and civilization spreadits changes over the scene. Thus society is ever changing; evenbeautiful cities that have existed in all the pomp of wealth andelegance, have now become extinct, and are covered by the dust ofages.

Man's life, too, is one constant scene of change, from infancy tochildhood, from childhood to manhood, and from manhood to old age. Andmany are the vicissitudes which await us during our journey throughlife. One generation passes away to be succeeded by another; wetoo must change, and when we shall be sought by our friends in ouraccustomed places, and they shall ask, "Where are they?" Echo shallanswer, "Where?"

To Mr. and Mrs. S----, On the Death of an Infant.

The fairest flow'r that blooms on earth, And charms the gazer's eye, Is first to lose its brilliant hues, And fade away and die.

Soft it unfolds its petals rare, To gentle dew and sun, But come one blast of chilling air, And all its beauty's gone.

E'en so is life; the glow of health That warms the youthful cheek, Seems to invite the tyrant Death, His helpless prey to seek.

Thy little babe scarce 'woke to life, And promised fair to bloom, Ere cruel Death his victim seiz'd, And bore it to the tomb.

We fondly watch'd with anxious eye, For Hope had promise giv'n; And little deem'd that passing sigh, Had borne his soul to heav'n.

Calm as the breath of summer eve, On flow'r and foliage shed, And pure as midnight's heav'nly dew, His gentle spirit fled.

Then let not grief for him abide Within a parent's breast, For while his flesh returns to dust, His soul's with God at rest.

When we from earth are call'd away; By God's own summons giv'n, May we as tranquilly depart, And be as sure of heav'n.

The Spirits of the Dead.

"Are they not all ministering spirits, sent forth to minister unto them who shall be heirs of salvation?"

Some say the spirits of the dead, Are hovering o'er our way; At night they watch around our bed, And guard our steps by day.

Their shadowy forms are floating round, In parlor and in hall; They come and go without a sound,-- As night dews gently fall.

One writer says, "Their airy forms Are round us everywhere; They are flitting in and out the door, And up and down the stairs."

Others the theory deride; But oft it seems to me, Beings are present by my side, Which yet, I cannot see.

Sometimes I start and gaze around, With half-bewildered air, Thinking some lov'd one's form to see, Within the vacant chair.

Sometimes a gentle rustling Falls faintly on the ear; Some angel, with the radiant wing, Perchance is hov'ring near.

We watch the dying Christian's bed, When death has marked his prey; He struggles painfully for breath, And longs to pass away.

But suddenly his eye grows bright, Lit by unearthly fires; He gazes upward with delight,-- The angels strike their lyres.

The music falls upon his ear, In sweet seraphic strains; Nought earthly can detain him here,-- His spirit bursts its chains,

Ossian, old Scotia's ancient bard, The genius of the past; Saw ghosts upon the fleecy clouds, And heard them in the blast.

The spirits of the mighty dead, That were in battle slain, Came by his master spirit led, Back to this earth again,

Their shadowy forms, in mist arrayed, Rode on the drifting clouds; The fork'd lightnings round them play'd, And thunders echo'd loud.

Fiercely they shook their airy spears, And clos'd in deadly fight Shriek'd, as in agony and fear, Then vanish'd from the sight.

Thus did old Scotia's ancient bard, Hold converse with the dead; "Back in the dim and shadowy past; Those phantoms all had fled."

There let them rest; years have rolled on, Down the dark tide of time; Our loftier faith is built upon A structure more sublime.

We know if angel spirits come From other worlds to this, They are sent to guide us to our home, Where God our Father is.

The Widow's Home

Alas, my home is lonely,-- They've parted from my side; My husband in the church yard's laid, My daughter is a bride.

She's stood beside the altar, And breath'd that solemn vow, From which she may not falter, Till life is ended now.

But, oh, my home is lonely,-- I miss them by the hearth; When evening shadows gather 'round, I miss their social mirth.

I miss the glances of the eye, The old familiar tone,-- And feel indeed, the widow's home Is desolate and lone.

And when we gather round the board, There's each one's vacant chair; And, oh, I miss them every hour-- And miss them everywhere.

But still there must be changes, While time is stealing by, Alternate sun and shadow Will flit across the sky.

To Mrs. J. C. Bucklin, by Her Father.

My child, why weepest thou? Are these drawn lines of sorrow alone thygarlands? Why this dreary awe, this languishing on all around you? Buthush, these are the foot-prints of Death; he has indeed been with youin his uncertain rounds. The deep, reposing influences indicate hispath. I will not dare to question a mother's love, so strange andinexplicable in power, and so mysterious in operation, gentle as thebreathing of the memory, ungovernable as the whirlwind in its frenzy,tender as the angel of sympathy, yet stronger than the bands of Death,it is painful to witness such a cloud of sorrow resting on one soyoung as you, without an atheistic questioning, the all-wise purposesof our Father in heaven.

Your own lovely babe you so fondly adored, Death's torn from the heart of her mother, So full was your soul of a mother's deep love, You would gladly have died to restore her. Poor fragile, fading, short-lived flow'r, She was bright and lovely for an hour.

To The Reader.

And now, courteous reader, perchance thou art weary with thywanderings, and the flowers we have gathered may appear withered tothee, and devoid of beauty or fragrance, and the peep into memory'sinner chambers may not have afforded thee the pleasure that I havederived from the survey. If so, farewell, I will intrude no more uponthy time or patience. The curtain has fallen, the dim, misty curtain,and memory has turned her golden key, closed her portfolio, and satdown with folded hands, to brood over her hoarded treasures, placingeach in its proper place, to be brought forward again at her mandate,to beguile, perchance, other weary midnight hours with their magicspell. The past cannot be redeemed, and the future is hid inuncertainty; but the present, the golden present is ours, and whileour little bark is floating upon the stream of time, let us improvethe precious moments as they fly, and spend them in a cultivation ofthe best affections of the human mind. The mind, that boundless oceanof human thought that is placed within each individual, stretchingon throughout the ceaseless ages of eternity. But there must come asolemn time to all who live. Death is upon our track, and will surelysoon overtake us, and our decaying bodies must be hid forever fromsight beneath the clods of the valley: but these minds shall thenlive, and happy they who, by a cultivation of the best principles ofour nature, have an antepast of heaven while upon earth.

May this be our happy case, gentle reader, if we meet not again onearth, we shall meet in heaven, "for we must all stand before thejudgment seat of Christ." I have spread out before you the secretmusings of many a midnight hour, and I feel that I am responsible forwhat I have written. May God grant forgivness for the wrong. And thuswe part, gentle reader, to toss yet a little longer upon the stream oftime, ere its waves and its billows pass over us forever.

"When midnight o'er the moonless skies, Her shades of mimic death has spread, When mortals sleep, when spectres rise; And nought is wakeful but the dead. No bloodless shape my path pursues; No shiv'ring ghost my couch annoys, Visions more sad my fancy views, Visions of dear departed joys,-- The shade of youthful hope is there."